Symbolistic White Walls
by spacemonkey69
Summary: CJ Morraty finally found a character to write about. Unfortunately for Chandler, that character was him. Chapter One up, please read and review.


I am such a bad little girl. I know I only just started a multi chaptered fic, but this one jumped into my head out of just nowhere and demanded to be taken care of, straight away, or a mental beating would be in order. I hate getting mental beatings, it's always so awkward in my head afterwards.

Moving on to get away from the craziness, I say welcome ya'all to my new fic! I'm somehow crafting it to be a comedy/suspense, which is exciting me to great ends, because usually suspense goes together with drama, so whee! Anyway, this is a weird one. It was inspired first by me wanting Chandler to go a bit loopy (more so than usual, and in a good way) and by me catching sight of the trailer for 'Stanger Than Fiction'. Anyone who has seen that trailer probably can figure out where I'm going to take this...ish. So yeah, I've created a new character who is, essentially, me, except hopefully I'm not as strange as her. She's a bit of an oddball, and I will only embrace that later on. Let it be known that I don't name my pens, although I do have a favourite that I only write with. The lefthandedness thing comes from me being left handed, the initials 'CJ' are my initials...Carina Jane. Oh, and the strange Jon Stewart obsession she has going on? That's a bit of a shrugger from me, I'm afraid. I love the guy, but on a whole different level to CJ. But as usual, I've spoken too much, so please read and review and I love you!

I do not own friends/actors/characters, but I do own a temperature of 39 degrees C, which is...I dunno, 102 for you americans, or something? Eh, I'm steaming so the wackiness may be caused by my heat induced delusions.

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The mid afternoon light danced irritable across the blank piece of paper and CJ Morraty sighed.

"Two hours and this is what I've got to show?" she muttered, then added, "To myself, anyway," as she flicked her felt tip across the desk. She didn't usually write with a felt tip – the very notion was laughable as her left handedness made the ink prone to smudging – but her favourite pen had met its doom late yesterday morning. Felt tip was all she could find.

The thought that she had only owned two black pens in her entire apartment was pretty depressing, but like all the other depressing things in her life, she tried not to let it bring her down.

Except it was, she thought as she glared down at the blank paper – not even a suggestive drawing in the top left corner this time, which was strange. When facing writers block, she always drew naughty pictures.

It had to be the pens fault. She moved her glare from the paper to the pen, then let out a sigh.

"Did Hemmingway ever have to go through this?" she wondered, standing up and stretching her weary limbs. "I give up."

CJ walked over to her kitchen counter and picked up a ruby red apple from her fruit bowl, lazily regarding the stack of mail to her left as she took a bite. Probably just bills, she mused.

Still, she reached over and, with a deft flick of her heavily favoured left hand, knocked the pile over.

He blue eyes narrowed as she spotted a small parcel. How the hell could she have missed that on the walk up from the mail room?

Shrugging, CJ picked up the parcel and attempted to open it one handed. The apple was set upon the counter moments later and CJ eagerly dug into the small package, pausing only briefly to acknowledge the lack of address or _anything _on the brown paper. Maybe it's anthrax?

CJ paused again the paper too far ripped to stop the supposed anthrax from infecting her, and she might have panicked for a moment.

"Surely Jon would have mentioned something about an anthrax breakout," she reprimanded herself, her subconsciousness pleading with her to watch a news program _other _than 'The Daily Show'.

Shrugging, she ripped the final bits of paper off, uncovering a small black box, a note attached. Frowning, she opened the note and read the sprawled words carefully.

_Sorry to hear about Lefty's demise. But, don't worry, I got you Lefty Jr. Enjoy!_

CJ's frown grew deeper for a split second, then smoothed out as she began to giggle. The writing was messy and unmistakably Sarah's and CJ loved her best friend more than ever at that moment.

Sighing happily, she took off the lid of the box and uncovered Lefty Jr, her shiny new, custom made ball point.

"If I squint, it's the same as Lefty," she whispered to herself, knowing she could write now. Picking up her cell, she quickly messaged her thanks to Sarah, then walked over to her desk, the apple on the counter turning brown and forgotten.

She sat down in her chair, smiling happily at the framed photo of Jon Stewart that adorned her desk. "All systems are go, Jon."

A small laugh left her lips as she adjusted Lefty Jr in her hand and stared down at the piece of paper, waiting for the words to flow.

"Crap," she muttered a moment later. Lefty Jr felt heavy in her hand and she missed original Lefty. He could make her write, even if she had nothing to write about. That's where the naughty drawings came into it. But there was nothing to write about.

Nothing to write about, nothing to tell…

Nothing to tell? Hadn't that been the first line said in 'Friends'?

She hadn't written anything about 'Friends' in three years, no fan fiction in two, and she decided her second book of pretentious short stories could wait for a while longer as inspiration struck.

"Chandler Bing, are you in trouble," she whispered deviously as the words transferred from her brain to the paper, via Lefty Jr, and a jolt of excitement and something foreign struck her.

_Chandler Bing opened his eyes to darkness, the familiar feel of a full bladder back-pedalled by the terrifying sense that something was amiss. It was almost as if something, someone was calling for him from afar, their bony fingers clawing through the darkness and Chandler felt his chest tighten. His fingers curled around the edge of his sheet and his breath quickened and Chandler tried to remember the last time he had felt so alone…_

_**14 Days Left**_

Chandler blinked in confusion, the feeling of dread lifting ever so slightly as he heard those words repeat in his mind. 14 days left? Until what?

Did it even matter? His brain was just trying to scare him-

"Yeah, because that's not insane," he muttered, rolling over and trying to forget the whole thing. It wasn't going to become an issue, no way, Jose. There was no voice calling to him, no countdown and more importantly, there was no sudden narration inside his head. Those sorts of crazies were reserved for people in straight jackets and white had never been his colour.

_Since a young age, humour had been an important factor for Chandler, a self defence mechanism that had spawned from a childhood more troubled than most._

Chandler bolted upright in bed, eyes widening slightly as he glanced around the dark room.

"Who is _saying _that?" he hissed, then froze, wondering if he should get used to white padded walls. Shaking his head, he slowly lay back down, the voice dormant once more. The voice that didn't exist, he chastised himself harshly.

No voice inside this cranium.

He rolled onto his side pathetically, eyes squeezing shut in a desperate attempt to block out the crazies.

The eyes flew open only moments later, and he groaned in annoyance.

He _so _had to pee.


End file.
